A moan shivers through me, ripped from somewhere not entirely of this plane, and Marshall, behind, echoes it with one of his own.
He strips, clearly done waiting. Shirt gone, jeans shoved low, cock hard and flushed, glistening at the tip. My mouth actually waters.
The look he gives me is molten. He glances at Jesse, then at Wyatt, an unspoken question passing between them like a current, and Jesse answers with a grin, almost feral, wickedly bright.
“Give her your cock, man. Or are you going to make her beg?”
Marshall’s answering smile is a slow sunrise.
He lines himself up behind me, sliding his hand over my ass, the small of my back, the delicate edge of my hip, and when he slicks two fingers along me, careful, gentle, but still almost too much, I rock against his grip.
My mouth falls open around a fractured gasp.
Wyatt doesn’t stop, doesn’t even pause, but Jesse catches my chin, turning my face to him for another bruising kiss, tongues tangling, breath shared and sharp.
The anticipation is a living thing, crawling up my spine, coiling in the base of my skull, the pit of my stomach, all the places that mark want from need.
The way they move around me, it’s choreography, yes, but more like a murmuration of starlings than any formal waltz, each movement predatory but together a kind of liquid grace.
Marshall’s fingers vanish, replaced by the blunt, insistent heat of him at my entrance. He pauses, hand still cupped under my hip, thumb sweeping soothing circles, and the waiting is exquisite agony.
I whimper, impatient, and he laughs against the nape of my neck. Then he pushes into me, slow at first, filling, impossibly so, and every cell in my body hurls itself toward the feeling.
I’m bracketed between the unyielding pressure of Marshall behind and the relentless devotion of Wyatt’s mouth, pinned like some wild, trembling creature. Jesse’s teeth graze my ear; he breathes my name.
Marshall finds my rhythm before I do, his hips an equation solved at some deeper level.
Wyatt’s tongue is a wicked instrument, teasing cruelty from mercy and then back again, and his hands grip me like I’m a relic, breakable and vital.
I dig my fingers into Jesse’s arms when he lets me, into anything that won’t disappear under my grasp. I want to stay right here, suspended, ruined, built new.
When it’s too much, when my legs go shaky, and my lungs pitch and I’m slurring desperate nonsense, Wyatt groans and stands, and Marshall slips out.
He’s flushed, lips swollen and slick, the rapture in his eyes edged with glassy disbelief. He kisses me, tasting the evidence of his effort, and I taste myself on him and want to shudder out of my skin.
I’m ready. Beyond ready.
Jesse collects me, lifting and turning, and then I’m on his bed, and Marshall’s got my knees open wide with careless confidence.
He’s there again, unhurried but relentless, and with every push deeper, I forget every damn rule I ever wrote for myself.
I reach for Jesse out of wild, animal need. He shucks his own shirt, the muscle and density of him making my mouth dry, and then he climbs onto the bed beside me, kneeling up so he can brush hair from my face. When I think he’s finally going to press his mouth to mine, he just breathes me in, his nose at the curve of my jaw, his lips a threat against my cheekbone.
“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he murmurs.
My pulse catches, sharp and bright, and when he kisses me again, it’s not a demand but a benediction. My whole body tries to catch fire at once.
I arch into Marshall’s thrusts, into Jesse’s hands, and I’m given over, torn gently apart, held together only by the scaffolding of their shared want for me.
Marshall sets a brutal pace, fucking into me with hard, possessive strokes that make the headboard slam into the wall. He’s rougher now.
One hand closes around my throat, not choking, just holding, making everything brighter. Sharper.
Jesse cups my cheek, thumb brushing my lip. “Taste me.”
I part my lips.
He slides into my mouth, thick and hot. “Fuck, Abilene.”
